


How To Be Depressed On a Budget, or An Unhappy Person's Guide to New York City

by Fictionista654



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Suicide Attempt, idk just really depressing enjoy, writer!Merlin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-12
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-02 04:08:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19191568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fictionista654/pseuds/Fictionista654
Summary: Merlin Wyllt's life isn't going too well. He's thirty years old, just lost his book deal, and really wants to die. And that's all before he runs into Arthur Pendragon at a bookshop.





	1. Home

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know why I can't get it to say 1/5 bc this isn't a one shot but oh, well.

The day after Merlin tried to kill himself, his publishers canceled his book deal. He knew something was up when he woke up to 17 missed calls from his agent. “Gwen?” he said, sitting up against the bathtub and looking dispassionately at the puddle of vomit on the bathroom floor. 

“Merlin!” she said, her voice pulsing frantically over the line. “Where have you been? I’ve been trying your phone for ages.”

“Asleep.” Merlin poked the vomit with the tip of his shoe and recoiled immediately. Disgusting. He couldn’t even kill himself right. “What’s up?”

“Um, what’s up? Are you joking?”

“Um.” Merlin’s mouth tasted like a horse’s arse. “No.”

“The email!” There was a pause as she waited for Merlin to remember. He didn’t. He’d been pretty fucked up the night before, to be honest. Thirteen, fourteen shots? And then all the painkillers. The painkillers which were now glopped to his tile. “The email you sent Mithian?”

Mithian was Merlin’s publisher. He tried to remember if he’d sent her an email, but came up blank. “I dunno.”

“You told her to suck whale dick and get fucked by a bald fucking eagle! Really not ringing any bells?”

Oh. Now that Gwen mentioned it, he could vaguely remember typing out something to that effect. “Hang on, wait a moment.” He muted the call and vomited into the tub. “I’m back.”

“They’re not publishing, Merlin. They dropped you.” 

Merlin tried to care. He tried really, really hard. But it was like a rope tethering him to hell had been cut. Pure relief. “I’m gonna go.”

“Merlin! Don’t hang—” _Click._ Merlin turned off his phone, then chucked it in the toilet for good measure. He was still in his clothes from yesterday, the waist of his skinny jeans digging into his skin. His trainers were still laced. He took his coat from where it was draped over the toilet and left his flat.

Why had he moved to New York, again? What a rubbish city. The sky was gray, the street was gray, the brownstones were gray. The leafless trees were gray. The yummy mummy pushing a double stroller past his stoop was gray. “No kale,” she was saying into her phone. “Mackenzie’s allergic.”

Merlin snorted, shoving his hands in his pocket and clomping down the front steps. If he were going to write anything ever again, he’d work that line in. But he wasn’t, so he wouldn’t. Oh, well. He turned the corner onto Columbus and watched a bored guy in a baseball cap wash the deli window. “You’re doing great,” he said as he passed. The man didn’t answer. He probably hadn’t heard.

Or Merlin had managed to kill himself, and now he was a ghost. He entertained this idea for three blocks before he accidentally ran into a Starbucks barista on a smoke break. “Rude,” she called out behind him when he didn’t apologize.

How should he kill himself this time? Decisions, decisions. _Once more unto the breach, dear friends._ If he had friends. Which was up for debate. Once he’d deleted his Twitter, most of his interaction with his writer friends stopped. He was still on a bunch of email listings, but it was mainly Gwen who checked those for him. And his uni friends were gone with the wind. He kicked an empty crisps packet and hated life.

There was the bookstore he’d given his first reading in. He looked through the glass, but didn’t recognize any of the employees. His stomach hurt. He went in. It was warm and smelled like books. Merlin didn’t want to be a corporate sellout, but the only thing better than this would be a Barnes & Noble. The smell of books and coffee together? Nothing better. He ran his fingers over the books on the New Releases table, recognizing a few of the authors. Another psychological thriller from Morgana Pendragon, a thick tome of love stories from Lancelot Dulac, an urban fantasy from Morgause Vivienne. He moved on. 

Large as it was, it was easy enough to find his book on the shelf. Five years ago, this book put Merlin Wyllt on the map. He picked it up, hefted it in one hand. Had it gotten heavier? Had they added new words behind his back? He flipped to the dedication page. _For mum. I love you._ She’d been so proud of him. When was the last time they talked? August? He wondered if she were still proud. 

She shouldn’t be.

“Oh, I love that book,” said a voice. Despite its horrid poshness, Merlin felt an immediate kinship with this fellow British traveller.

“It’s okay,” Merlin said, looking up. A golden face to match the golden accent. Strong jaw, Roman nose, blue eyes. If they were at a club, and Merlin were happy, he’d try to pull. Being a bit too suicidal for that at the moment, he just offered a weak smile. The man frowned.

“Hang on…” He took the book from Merlin and flipped to the back flap. His eyes widened. “It’s you! You’re Merlin Wyllt!”

“Doppelgänger,” Merlin muttered, taking back the book and sliding back into its place on the shelf. The golden man shook his head.

“You’ve got the same freckle on your forehead.”

“Whatever.” Merlin tugged his coat tighter and headed for the door. Golden Man cut him off.

“I’m Arthur Pendragon. I think you know my sister?”

“Oh,” said Merlin. He hoped Arthur wouldn’t be as hard to shake as Morgana. “I guess. We’ve done a few panels together.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen a vid!” said Arthur. “An Irish authors thing. With Tana French?”

“Tana’s brilliant,” Merlin said immediately, because you couldn’t mention Tana French without saying that. 

“I’ve never read her, but Morgana was thrilled when she blurbed her.” 

“Yeah.” Merlin pushed open the door and left the store. Arthur followed him. 

“Do you want to get a drink with me?”

Merlin looked at Arthur. “What?”

“A drink,” Arthur said. 

“Now?”

“I was thinking this evening? It’s sort of early for a drink, isn’t it?”

“I won’t be around this evening,” Merlin said.

“Oh,” said Arthur. “I’m free all day. Now works, too.”

“Okay. All the good bars are closed, but I know an okay restaurant.” Merlin squinted at Arthur, taking in his navy peacoat and cashmere gloves. “Probably won’t be your usual fare, but I’m all out of my advance.”

“Morgana was right,” Arthur said, following Merlin down the block. “You say exactly what you think. She didn’t tell me you were rude, though.” 

“I’m a dead man walking. No repercussions, today.”

Arthur looked concerned. “Is something wrong?”

Laughing without mirth was like dragging your fingers over sharp rock. Merlin did it anyway. “No,” he said, when he was finished. “I’m right as rain, my friend.” The despair, which had been confused by waking up in the bathroom and leaving the flat before noon, was settling back down. It sunk his heart and made his lips tingle. This wasn’t sadness. Sadness was almost pleasant. It led to cathartic tears and revelations and evolution. This led to nothing but more anger, more fear, more misery. 

He realized that Arthur had been talking, and wondered when Arthur would notice that Merlin wasn’t paying a lick of attention. His worsening mood cut him off from his senses. There was a ringing in his ears. The cars rushed by, and he considered jumping. But this was New York City. The cars were hardly moving fast enough. 

They reached the restaurant quickly. It was an Italian place, nice enough to have white tablecloths but not nice enough that you needed a reservation to eat. Merlin eyed Arthur as they took their seats, waiting for him to express, even unconsciously, discomfort. He’d heard the stories from Morgana. While she’d been raised by her single dad in Northern Ireland, Arthur’d been living in a mini Buckingham palace in London, suckling a silver spoon. This was the man who, as a boy, had two full rooms of toys.

Arthur opened his menu. “What do you recommend?”

Merlin flagged down their waiter, who was named Joe according to his name-tag. “I’ll take the passion fruit twist. With, um.” He scanned the list of proffered spirits. “Vodka. Thanks.” He folded his menu and handed it back. 

“Er, I’m still deciding,” said Arthur. When Joe left, he frowned at Merlin. “You’re not going to eat anything?”

“I thought we were getting a drink.” Merlin knew he was being difficult on purpose. Arthur really should walk out and leave him to his misery. Instead, Arthur pushed his menu over to Merlin.

“Pick something.”

Merlin pushed it back. “I’m not hungry.” Arthur rested his head on his hand. 

“Hm. You’re certainly grumpy.”

Grumpy. Despite himself, Merlin smiled. If only he were grumpy. Had woken up on the wrong side of the bed. Had his knickers in a twist. Any of those fucking expressions. Instead he was…this. There was a silence, and he strained to remember what polite conversation entailed. It was so, so hard to sit here talking to Arthur like they weren’t on either side of an enormous, murky lagoon. 

The drink, when it came, was okay. Merlin empties a few sachets of sugar into it, mixed it with the back of his spoon, and gulped three-quarters of it down in one go. He wiped his mouth, swigged the last quarter, and gave it back to Joe, who’d been taking Arthur’s order.

“Could I get another one of these, please?”

Joe was judging him. Merlin didn’t give a fuck. Arthur did, apparently.

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

“The twists are excellent,” Merlin said, trying to smile but grimacing instead. “You should get one. Hey, can I ask you a question?”

Arthur spread his hands. “Go for it.”

“If you knew that had only a day more to live, what would you do?”

“Pretty grim,” said Arthur.

“Don’t answer, then.”

Arthur’s mouth tightened as he studied Merlin’s face. Definitely worried. Merlin knew he should care, but he didn’t. He really just needed some pointers. “Say goodbye to my family, I suppose.”

Oh, right. That. Now that Merlin had been gifted an extra day by the suicide gods, he might as well do this one properly. The night before had been impulse, but he wouldn’t screw up tonight. “What if you can’t let them know, though,” asked Merlin. “You’d just have one last conversation with them anyway?”

“Good thing I’m not in that position,” said Arthur. “Oh, brilliant.” He accepted his bowl of spaghetti from Joe. 

“Another one of these,” Merlin said, picking up the drink Joe had just put down.

“You haven’t even had that one,” Arthur protested.

“Another one, thanks.” 

He’d used up all his energy gulping the first drink, so he took this one in a bunch of tiny sips. He could already feel the alcohol, just slightly, because of the way it interacted with his meds. It meant less money on alcohol, but he rolled the dice each time when it came to a potential seizure. Oh well.

Arthur somehow ate spaghetti without getting any sauce on his face. He didn’t even get sauce on the corners of his lips. Merlin would hate him if he had the energy. God, the smell of the pasta was nauseating. Gwen said it was because he wasn’t eating enough, that starving people have heightened senses of smell. She was probably right, but Merlin’s stomach always tightened like a tourniquet when solid food came into the picture. 

He drained his glass, and swivelled his finger around the bottom to catch the last drops. Waste not, want not. Merlin had the second one down. He didn’t want anything but nothingness. Why was the world filled with so much _stuff_? It was horrible. 

Merlin used to like stuff. He used to really, really like bookstores. And he’d barely been able to stand it today, standing in this place that he used to love so much and couldn’t love anymore. He wondered if there were any hope left for his book deal. Probably they were just trying to scare him, but even if they weren’t, it didn’t matter. He wouldn’t be there to finish it. And if they wanted to publish posthumously, they’d have to edit the ever-loving shit out of it. 

Gwen had his computer passcode, right? Oh, God. He wasn’t sure if he wanted anyone snooping around on his computer. In the three years he’d had it, who knows what embarrassing bullshit he’d downloaded? And they’d have all his texts, which, no thank you. He didn’t need everyone to find out what he really thought of them. 

Joe came back with Merlin’s third drink. He almost ordered a fourth, but he didn’t think he could take the judgement from Arthur. Also, he was starting to do the thing that happened when he mixed his meds with alcohol, where his lips went numb and he started slurring his words without being that drunk. Fucking embarrassing. Was he always such an embarrassment?

“Why am I always such an embarrassment?” Merlin said to Arthur. Arthur put down his fork.

“What?”

Shit. Nothing like alcohol to get the voice box going. “You know,” said Merlin. “Getting drunk off two-point-five cocktails. Skulking around bookstores like I still mean something.” 

Poor Arthur. He was keeping it together pretty well, Merlin had to admit. Face calm. Shoulders relaxed. “Like you still mean something?” he said slowly. 

“Whatever. It’s nothing.” Merlin wished he’d ordered that fourth drink. Maybe he should strike out on his own. Find a dive bar to rot in, maybe text his dealer. Last day on earth, last chance to smoke, right? 

“It doesn’t sound like nothing.”

What didn’t sound like nothing? Merlin retraced the conversation in his head. “My book sales are shit, and my next book’s been cancelled. No Hugo for me. Cheers.” He tried to drink, but his glass was empty. Fucking hell, when had that happened? “I’m going to need another.”

“No,” said Arthur, quietly but firmly. “I don’t think that’s a good idea right now.” 

“Fuck you.”

Arthur nodded. “That’s fair. Look, I’m not going to stop you. And I know we’ve only just met. But you seem…not in a good place.”

“Has anyone ever told you how observant you are? You could be a fucking detective. One of those shows with just your first name. _Arthur_. Oh, shit. That’s already a show. With the aardvarks?”

“Is that what they are?” Arthur said mildly. “I always thought they were bears.”

“Oh, God, maybe. I’ve got no fucking clue.” Merlin leaned back in his chair, trying to burn the least amount of energy possible. He’d need it to get back home. Arthur made eye contact with Joe and mimed signing a check. Merlin went to get his wallet, then stopped.

Oh. Fuck. It was at home, or maybe it was lost. Who knows what he did with it in his drunken stupor?

“You’ll have to come back to mine so I can repay you,” Merlin said. “I’ve not got any money with me.” Now he really was the biggest embarrassment on planet Earth.

“I’ve got it,” said Arthur, taking out his card. Merlin’s jaw dropped.

“That’s a Black Card! The American Express Black Card!” 

Now Arthur looked embarrassed. “It’s my father’s. And that sounds even worse.” 

“You really had to flex on me, didn’t you,” asked Merlin. “Couldn’t have pulled out one of the millions of other cards you have?” 

Arthur was flushed now. “I forgot I had it. I thought it was my regular.” 

“Oh. My. God,” said Merlin. “You’ve been walking around with a Black Card, and _didn’t remember_? Unbelievable.” With shock, Merlin realized that he was having fun. They should add that to the DBT books: when all else fails, mock Arthur Pendragon. “You do realize that Joe is going to flip shit, right?”

Arthur winced, but it was too late. Joe was upon them. Hesitantly, Arthur gave him the card.

And he didn’t fucking blink.

“He doesn’t know what a Black Card is,” Merlin said when Joe had gone. “Poor bloke doesn’t even realize what he’s holding. You know what? Societal norms are stupid. I’m not paying you back.”

“I told you I was covering it.”

“Yeah, and obviously I’m not supposed to let you. But fuck, go ahead.” The brief burst of excitement—not happiness, never happiness—was already sluicing away. It was even worse now. Tennyson was wrong. It was _not_ better to have loved and lost than never loved at all. That was ridiculous. You can’t mourn something you’ve never had. At least not as well as you can mourn something you have had.

“I’m going to go,” Merlin said, pushing back his chair. “I know it looks like I was taking advantage of you for a meal if I leave right now, but this is also when I’m freest, because you can’t leave your card behind.”

“You’re fleeing,” Arthur said flatly.

“Yep. It’s been fun. I wish I could see you again.”

Now Arthur looked really worried. He got up, too, and followed Merlin to the door. “Don’t go!”

Merlin shoved open the door and stepped into the freezing east coast winter. Hands in pockets, he went back in the direction of his flat. Then he heard a familiar voice behind.

“Merlin! Jesus!” It was Arthur, card in one hand, receipt in the other.

“Fuck off,” said Merlin, bending his head against the wind. 

“I know we’ve just met, but you’ve said some pretty frightening things today.”

“Whoops.” Where was all this vitriol coming from? He never felt like this when he was happy. Never felt like he was oozing toxic sludge. He deflected question after question with practiced nonchalance, sighing with relief when they reached the brownstone that housed his flat.

And Arthur followed him inside. Merlin didn’t even have the energy to protest. Just led him up the stairs and into the flat. Had it been this disgusting when he left it? Beers cans clustered on the coffee table, fast-food wrappers in the corners. He hadn’t ordered fast-food for weeks, which meant he hadn’t cleaned for months. He considered apologizing for the mess, but he wasn’t really sorry.

“Can I get you something to drink?”

“Just water,” said Arthur, very politely not looking around. So Merlin went into the tiny kitchen and got Arthur a glass of water and poured himself a glass of vodka disguised as water and brought them to the dining nook, where he and Arthur sat at the dining room table and sipped at their drinks.

“Thanks,” said Arthur, wiping his mouth. “I needed that.”

Merlin nodded and knocked back half his glass. It burned liked cold wind. “Want one?” he said, picking up a half-full carton of cigarettes. Arthur leaned forward on his elbows and put his chin in his hands.

“No, thanks.” Arthur didn’t sound judgmental, but Merlin could tell it was there. 

“Pass that lighter, would you?” 

Arthur pushed aside a stack of bills and held up Merlin’s skull-and-crossbones lighter. “This was from Morgana?”

“She got you the same one?” said Merlin. Arthur nodded, rolling it around in his palm before handing it over.

“She really likes your work, you know.”

Merlin shrugged; none of that matter now. Five, six years ago, he’d have been thrilled to hear that Morgana Pendragon liked his stuff. Now all he could think was that she would absolutely hate the drivel sitting on his hard-drive. “What is this?” she’d say, in her slightly raspy, beautiful voice. “My Year 7 diary?” And she’d be right. There was one page that read only, “I don’t want to be here,” again and again and again. Where had it all gone wrong? The window rattled in a sudden breeze, and they both looked over at it. It had started to rain.

“I tried to kill myself last night,” said Merlin. He didn’t mean to. It slipped out. Arthur licked his lips.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Merlin finished his vodka. “It didn’t work.”

“I can see that.” 

“If you tell anyone I said that, I’ll say you’re lying.”

“Okay.” Arthur’s face was frustratingly blank. _Say something!_ Merlin wanted to scream. _Fucking say something!_ The cigarette was making his stomach hurt, so he dropped it in his empty glass and watched it smolder. His throat hurt, too. 

“Are you going to try again?” Arthur said.

“Tonight,” said Merlin.

Arthur nodded, a frown on his face. Then he surprised Merlin. “You want to do something fun before you kick it?”

“Oh, what the hell,” said Merlin. “What’ve you got in mind?”


	2. Brooklyn Bridge

“Oh,” said Merlin. “This isn’t as exciting as I thought it would be.”

“I thought the view might be better,” Arthur admitted. They continued staring into the fog. “The Statue of Liberty’s somewhere that way, isn’t it?”

“Wow,” said Merlin. “How exciting.” He fished the cigarettes out of his jacket pocket and lit up. “I have to tell you, Arthur, I think I should come up with the bucket list items from now on.”

“It was my idea.”

Merlin rolled his eyes. “And it’s _my_ bucket list.” Below them, on either side, cars rushed past. Below the cars was the dark water. “I’m still going to kill myself tonight.”

“Got it,” said Arthur. He looked at Merlin. “What else are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking I wouldn’t have minded dying without walking this bridge,” said Merlin. “But maybe we’ll see a jumper, and he’ll make me realize how dumb suicide is. Was that your plan all along?”

“You’ve got me,” said Arthur. “This isn’t all about you, though. I’ve been wanting to come here.”

The wind blew Merlin’s smoke back in his face, and he coughed. “Oh. You’ve got a hard-on for bridges or something?”

Arthur laughed. It sounded surprisingly genuine. “No, that’s my father. He’s the architect, not me. But I didn’t want to come to New York without seeing everything there is to see.”

“Everything?” said Merlin. “People live here their whole lives and barely scratch the surface of this city.”

“Well, you’ve been living here, how long? Three years? You can show me the exciting bits.”

“What exciting bits,” Merlin asked. “Everything’s boring and everything sucks.”

“All right, Eeyore. Anything you want to say about the bridge? Something to deepen our connection with this historic landmark?”

Merlin pressed his hand against a plaque and bent down to read it. “This is for the people who died while constructing the bridge. Jesus. They all kept falling off.”

“That wasn’t very smart of them.”

Merlin snorted. “Or maybe they had the best of it.” 

“I don’t think so,” said Arthur. “I think life’s pretty good.”

“It’s good for you,” said Merlin. “Not for everyone.”

“Haven’t you been happy before?” Arthur said. Merlin thought about this as they walked back toward the Manhattan side.

“I guess. Maybe when I sold my book. Which is never going to happen again. I told you they’re cancelling my book, right?” Merlin sighed. “I mean, it’s my fault. I got drunk last night and said some awful things to my publisher.”

“It can’t have been that bad,” said Arthur.

“I told her to perform fellatio on a whale. Oh, fuck. That’s sexual harassment, isn’t it?”

“Maybe,” said Arthur. “I don’t know. I wouldn’t say it again.”

“Right.” Merlin drummed his fingers on the railing. “I hate walking. Fucking hate it. Why are we walking, again? Let’s get an Uber. Call us an Uber, Arthur.”

“Oh, stop moaning,” said Arthur. “It’s not that bad to use your legs.” 

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck you too. We’re almost there, look.”

It was freezing. Merlin burrowed deeper into his jacket. “You’re like a fucking prison warden, you know that?”

“Explain.”

“In the films and shit,” said Merlin. “Get into the yard! Go into your cell! Shut up in there! You know. Demanding.”

“I think you could come up with better metaphors if you really tried. No wonder your second book is shit. Pure laziness.”

“You’re not funny.”

“No, you’re right. I’m not. I’m sorry.”

Merlin’s nose prickled, and he thought he might cry. “Morgana’s much funnier than you are. Wittier.”

“Morgana was born for cocktail parties,” said Arthur. “She’s in her element castrating men with pithy one-liners.”

At Merlin’s release party, Morgana had brought a bottle of expensive wine wrapped in a red bow. She’d kissed him on the cheek and said, “Next time, ask _me_ to decorate.”

“Morgana!” her girlfriend had said. What had her name been? Ellen, maybe? All Merlin could remember was that she’d shown up tipsy and had done pirouettes all around the flat until she bumped her hip on a side-table and knocked over a lamp. She was nice, though. 

“Of course,” Arthur continued, “you don’t need a cocktail party to eviscerate someone with a joke. But it’s the only classy way to do it.”

“Not true,” said Merlin. “A dinner party also works.”

“But then you’re trapped at the table with them.”

Merlin watched an old man struggle with his umbrella. The wind kept flipping it inside-out. “It’s not even raining. Do you think he knows that?”

“Maybe he’s just preparing,” said Arthur. “It looks like the rain might start again.”

“Stupid reason to go around with your umbrella open,” Merlin said. “It’s not worth the trouble. Look at him! He can barely walk in a straight line with it.” 

Arthur hurried ahead. “Excuse me, sir? Can I help you with anything?” The man said no, but Merlins still felt bad. He used to be the kind of person who asked when someone needed help. Apparently he’d outgrown that, along with brushing his teeth every night and eating fruits and vegetables. Arthur came back, and frowned at Merlin’s expression.

“You look like someone just kicked your teeth in.”

“Oh,” said Merlin. Arthur began swinging his arms. Merlin looked at him sideways, and he stopped.

“Do you know why you’re so upset today?” said Arthur.

“Today?” said Merlin. “Today’s nothing. You should have seen me yesterday.”

“Did something happen?”

“No.” Merlin’s nose was running, and he realized his tissues were in his other coat. He went ahead and wiped his nose with the back of his hand.

“Here,” said Arthur, giving Merlin a cloth handkerchief. 

“Oh, God,” said Merlin. “I hate these things. You just walk around with snot on a piece of cloth all day?”

“It’s not that bad,” said Arthur. “It’s better than using your hand like some sort of Philistine.” 

Merlin folded it and unfolded it and refolded it again. It was something to do with his hands, at least. He could feel Arthur watching him. “You don’t have to do this. You can get back to your life. I’m sure you’re busy.”

“I’m not starting in the New York office until Monday,” said Arthur. “This is the most free I’ve been for years.”

“So enjoy yourself. Don’t waste it on a lost cause.”

“I _am_ enjoying myself. You’re not such terrible company. Where do you want to go next?”

“To sleep.”

“Ha.” 

“I’m serious.”

“I know you are, Merlin, but you’ve agreed to spend the day with me, and it would be rather rude of you to back out now. Come on, I’m new in town. I need someone to show me the ropes.”

“The ropes…” Merlin said, starting to smile. Arthur looked confused, and then laughed.

“Bad choice of words.”

“Maybe. Don’t worry. That’s all I seem to be doing nowadays. Bad choices of words.” 

“You mean your second book?”

Merlin twisted the handkerchief around a finger. “I don’t know. It feels so different from my first one. _Confessions_ just poured out of me. I couldn’t stop writing. When I wasn’t writing, I was thinking about writing. I wrote in my bloody sleep. And now it’s such a fucking headache to get anything down.”

“Morgana gets writer’s block, too,” said Arthur. “And then she has to have a lot of sex for a few months before she can go back to writing.”

Merlin’s mouth twisted into an ugly smile. “Morgana’s a genius, Arthur. Her words are going to be there forever, when she needs them. I’m just a well that’s run dry. A one-trick pony. I can’t even write articles anymore. They all sound like some poor kid’s school report. The other day I found myself writing _therefore_. Therefore! Have you ever heard a more amateur word?”

“Yes,” said Arthur. “Yesterday I read an article with the line, _They rattled him with questions, but he wasn’t phased._ If he wasn’t phased, he wasn’t rattled!”

“I wrote that article,” said Merlin.

“No, you didn’t.”

“But you believed me for a second.”

“No, I didn’t.” 

“Oh, just say you did, and we’ll be done with it,” said Merlin. 

“Never,” said Arthur.

Merlin thought he might need another cigarette.


	3. The Met

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains some historical mistruths, just bc I'm still salty abt the way this show ended

“I don’t get it,” said Arthur. 

“Maybe it’s supposed to be a ripple?” said Merlin. “Like, on a pond?”

“So why didn’t he paint a ripple on a pond?”

“Because he was really, really good at painting green circles,” said Merlin. “Ever since he was a little boy, he painted green circles everywhere. They told him he wouldn’t get anywhere with it, but, damnit, he worked and he worked and now he’s in the Met.”

Arthur laughed, a great, deep belly laugh. “Of course. You must be right.” 

“At least there’s something going on with Pollack,” said Merlin as they made their way out of the Modern Art section. “Stuff to look at and splotches and things. But I’m not sure what to do with a green circle.”

“Did it cure your depression?”

“Yep. Maybe my next book will be self-help. I’d call Gwen, but I threw my phone in the toilet.”

Arthur nodded, as if this were a reasonable thing to do. “Do you want to go get a new one?”

“Nice try,” said Merlin. “I still won’t be here tomorrow to use it.”

“That’s a shame,” said Arthur. “It’s fun to buy electronics.”

“When you’re rich.”

“Touché.” Arthur looked at his watch. “Shall we get something to eat?”

“Didn’t you have pasta?”

“Four hours ago,” said Arthur. 

They went to the café. Arthur got a sandwich. Merlin got a cup of black coffee. They sat at one of the small tables and looked out through the floor-to-ceiling windows at the rolling green grass of Central Park. “Aren’t you hungry?” said Arthur. “You haven’t had anything to eat all day.”

“I had an entire ham before I left this morning,” said Merlin. “Apple and all.”

“So you had a few strips of deli meat.”

Not even. “Yeah,” said Merlin. “I had some deli meat.” The coffee burned his tongue and the roof of his mouth, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to taste right for days. If he had days left. He forced down another swallow of coffee and tried not to grimace. It tasted like earwax.

“I liked the suits of armor,” said Arthur. “They were sort of thrilling. It made me think of Medieval times.”

“Maybe that’s because they were from Medieval times.”

Arthur made a face. “Don’t be such a know-it-all. It’s not attractive. And, yes, I know they were from Medieval times. But they made me think about history lessons I’ve had. All the wars and things. William the Conquerer and Richard the Lionheart and Bad King John. They make me think of your book, actually.”

“ _Confessions_?”

“No, your cookbook. Obviously _Confessions_. It’s really brilliant, what you did with Joan of Arc. School never did her justice.”

“Well, it’s fiction, obviously,” said Merlin. “She didn’t really sleep with an angel or travel in time.”

“That we know of,” said Arthur. “And I read almost all the books in the bibliography. I learned a lot.”

“Like?”

“Did you know there was a King Arthur?”

“In the 500’s?” Merlin said. “Minor king, ruled for seven years, died at the battle of Camlann? Instituted a chivalric code that lasted for seventy years?” 

“My dad told me my mum named me after him,” said Arthur. 

“She didn’t want to name you after a king that actually got things done?”

“She liked some of the stories she read about him. You know, having Druids as advisors and things like that. She wanted a daughter to name Guinevere, but it never happened.”

“Ah, Queen Gwen,” said Merlin. “I wanted to write a book about her. She ruled as a single woman for the better part of a century. She believed in magic. When her husband died, she invited anyone who claimed they could do magic to show her.” 

“You could still write it.”

The coffee cup shook in Merlin’s hand. He’d had a tremor ever since starting his new medication, but it was worse than usual right now, probably because of the caffeine. “I told you I’m not falling for that. It doesn’t matter what I write, anyway. The world’s going to end in a giant fireball any day now, and then there won’t be anyone left to read what I have to write.”

“What do you mean?” said Arthur, his voice ridiculously gentle.

“We’re all going to succumb to climate change any day now.”

“You can’t really believe that,” said Arthur, and Merlin felt a touch of anger break through the numbness.

“You’re denying it, then? You think the world’s going in a good direction?”

“Not at all,” said Arthur. “And don’t tell anyone I told you this, but neither does my father. But it’s not about that. If everyone gives up, we’ll lose for real. And buck up. We still have a decade before climate change is irreversible. Why don’t you join the fight? Go rehabilitate sea turtles or fish plastic bags out of ocean.”

“You’ll have to do it for me,” said Merlin. There was a _plink_ as something dropped into his coffee. A tear, Merlin realized. He was crying. Something nudged his foot, and he realized it was Arthur, letting him know that he was there. Obviously Merlin knew he was there. He was sat right across the table from him.

“I want to see the sculptures,” said Arthur.

 

The sculpture garden was a hall with a vaulted glass ceiling and, now that the sun had come out, lots of natural light. Merlin had scribbled parts of _Confessions_ into a notebook in this very room. He’d spent a lot of time looking up at golden Diana, following the line of tension from the tip of her bow hand to the tip of her outstretched foot. Arthur seemed particularly taken with Perseus and Medusa. Perseus’s face with its blind triumph, Medusa’s with a kind of grim acceptance. 

“What do you think she’s thinking?” said Merlin.

“ _How did this man-child beat me?_ ” Arthur said. “ _He’s barely got a dick._ ”

“She’s probably relieved,” said Merlin. “Now she doesn’t have to worry about turning people into stones.”

“Have you even read the myths? Fucking loved turning men to stones. Morgana went as her for Halloween when we were kids.”

“Yeah. I don’t know. That’s not what I meant.”

“You meant you wish you were dead, like her.”

“You said it, not me.”

“Merlin, you’ve been telling me about your plan to kill yourself all day. I don’t have to say it.”

Merlin stared at the Gorgon head and tried not to cry. For a moment, the despair was so great that he thought he might collapse. He had a crazy image of himself grabbing onto the statue for support and bringing it down with him. Hulk smash. Everything was much to close, and he turned on his heel and marched towards the exist, Arthur following him. The lobby was even worse than the sculpture garden, and by the time Merlin reached the steps outside the museum, his whole body was shaking. He got halfway down before he had to sit and put his head between his legs. 

“Don’t let me fall down the stairs,” he managed, and Arthur put an arm around him and tugged him close. He realized Arthur was wearing cologne. Something musky. It was nice. And it was nice to be held. He curled into Arthur’s chest and panted into his soft sweater. His arms he kept tucked between them, trying to shrink. The smaller he was, the less unhappiness he could hold. 

Embarrassingly, Merlin was making little choking noises and gulps and pathetic little cries, sounds that couldn’t bode well for Arthur’s sweater, but Arthur didn’t let go. Instead, he pressed his face into Merlin’s hair and murmured, “Let it out. It’s okay. Let it out.”

“I don’t want the world to end, I don’t want the world to end,” Merlin whispered. “I don’t want it to end, I don’t want it to end.”

“Shhh. Merlin. Look at me, Merlin.” Arthur drew away from Merlin and caught his gaze. “It’s not going to end. I promise you, it’s not going to end. Because there are people like you who care about it, who are going to save it.”

“But not me,” said Merlin. “I don’t want the world to end, but I want to end. I’m ready.”

Arthur didn’t flinch. “I know it hurts. I’m sorry.”

“God, I’m a fucking mess,” Merlin said shakily. “I don’t even—we don’t even know each other.”

“We do now,” said Arthur. “In fact, I believe you’ve acquainted yourself with my sweater.” Merlin flushed and tried to turn away, but Arthur drew him into another hug. “I didn’t mean it like that. It’s fine. I’m loaded, remember?”

“Stupid fucking Black Card.” 

“Admit,” said Arthur. “You’re jealous.”

“Absolutely not,” said Merlin.


	4. Central Park

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW for brief mention of non-consensual drugging

“What are you staring at the lamppost for?” said Arthur.

“Tourists,” Merlin scoffed. They were on one of the park’s many meandering paths. Everything smelled like dirt and rain and leaves, and it almost made Merlin not unhappy. “Look, you see those numbers?”

Arthur squinted. “They’re faded.”

“Arthur.”

“Yeah. 8022.”

“So the first two numbers,” and here Merlin ran his finger underneath them, “are whatever street you’re closest to.”

“So we’re closest to 80th?”

Merlin didn’t dignify that with a response. “And then if the last two are odd, you’re closer to the East side, and if they’re even, you’re closer to the West. I shouldn’t have survived.”

It took a moment for Arthur’s face to catch up, his bemused smile slipping into something more reserved. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Merlin looked down at the thigh-high fence that ran along the sides of the path. “I thought yesterday was it. I was ready. And now I have to do it again.”

Arthur closed his eyes. Merlin watched a slug ooze across a tree root.

“Merlin,” Arthur said. He sounded pained.

“No,” said Merlin. “You don’t get to do that. If you don’t want to be here, go. But this is my last fucking day, and you’re not going to ruin it by guilting me.”

“I’m not trying to—fuck, Merlin, I’m not trying to guilt you.” Why did Arthur have to sound so bloody earnest all the time? “You have to understand that it’s hard listening to a person say they’re going to kill themselves.”

Merlin resumed walking. “Then don’t listen.”

“It would be harder to leave than not to listen.”

“Oh, my God, are you always this indecisive? No wonder Morgana despairs.” 

“Morgana despairs of a lot of things,” said Arthur, accepting Merlin’s half-assed olive branch. “Politicians, pundits, the state of journalism.”

“She’s right about journalism,” said Merlin. “It’s gone to shit. You know what I hate?”

“I think I’m about to find out,” Arthur said, and Merlin elbowed him.

“Shut up. I hate those articles on mental health they’ve got these days. The ones everybody writes. They all say the same thing, and it’s like, please stop. You’re not as important as you think you are. Fucking self care and mindfulness and shit.” 

“Morgana used to hate all that stuff, too,” said Arthur. “Then she went to therapy, and now she meditates in front of a candle every night.”

“No way.”

“One-hundred percent true.” 

Merlin couldn’t think of anything to say next. Neither could Arthur, apparently, because they walked in silence for a while. Up in the trees, the birds screamed. The whip-poor-will song mixed with the crows’ full-throated coos mixed with the dull drumbeat of the woodpecker. A bald man in a blue tracksuit jogged in and then out of sight. 

When they came to Bethesda Terrace, Arthur’s mouth dropped open. “It’s beautiful here. I didn’t know this existed.” 

“My favorite bit’s the angel on top of the fountain,” said Merlin, pointing upward to where the angel stared calmly down at the water, one her hands outstretched in benediction. They sat on the stone bench and listened to the fountain, while one of the Lake’s fingers rolled green and beautiful behind it. Merlin focused on the white spray, catching shapes that flickered like flames.

“Thank you for showing me this, Merlin.” 

“Just Google _things to do NYC_ , and you’ll find it,” said Merlin. “You don’t need me for it.”

“But it’s special,” Arthur said quietly. “It’s special that I’m here with you.”

Merlin smiled coldly. “The last person to see Merlin Wyllt alive.” He tapped out a new cigarette and contemplated it before putting it away and tucking the pack back into his pocket. 

“Right,” said Arthur. “I’ll write the forward for the next edition of _Confessions_.” 

“Make sure to mention the smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. And say that I didn’t seem unhappy, just distracted. They’ll love that.”

“Naturally, all the proceeds from the next edition will go a mental health organization,” said Arthur.

“Don’t do a gay one,” said Merlin. “That’s so fucking cliché. I’m not killing myself because I’m gay, I’m killing myself because I’m depressed.”

“All right,” Arthur said seriously. “No Trevor Project.”

“Donate to RAINN, that’ll really confuse them,” said Merlin. “They’ll reread all my old essays, trying to figure out if I sexually assaulted.”

“Were you?” said Arthur. Merlin took the cigarettes back out and lit one. Arthur waited.

“Nah,” he said finally, blowing out smoke. “I mean, a little bit. But hasn’t everyone been?” Arthur didn’t answer. “I mean, not everyone. But most people. Someone put something in my drink once, but nothing happened. They didn’t go through with it. Apparently I wandered around all night telling people my dad was on the phone. Except I didn’t have a phone. And my dad was dead.” The ash at the end of the cigarette stacked up, glowing evilly. “That’s not why I’m depressed. God, that would be ridiculous. Anyway, I only went to that party to get drunk to forget what shit life is.”

“Did they catch him?” said Arthur. “Whoever spiked your drink?”

“I don’t know. I don’t remember.” Merlin held a straight face for as long as he could before laughing. “But seriously. I don’t remember. So. Your turn. Give me a story.”

Arthur pursed his lips as he thought. “When I was seventeen, I was going through an old file cabinet. I can’t remember what I was looking for, but I ended up finding this piece of paper with my father’s handwriting on it. And on the top of the paper it said _REGRETS_ , and the first thing on the list was _Ygraine’s IVF_. Which is how I was conceived. She died in childbirth.”

“Oh, Arthur,” said Merlin. It was a strange relief to feel bad for someone else instead of himself, and he leaned into the feeling. “I’m so sorry. It makes sense that you were upset, but I don’t think it means your father regrets you.”

“I know,” Arthur said heavily. “But you wanted a story.” His hand, chapped red knuckles and bitten-down nails, lay on the bench between them. Looking away, Merlin bumped it with his own. Also looking away, Arthur slid his hand over Merlin’s. Their fingers twined together.


	5. Magnolia Bakery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW for discussion of suicide methods.

Merlin looked glumly at his coconut cupcake. It was an unappetizing mess of sugar and vanilla and coconut chunks, and he couldn’t remember why he used to like it. A tiny pigtailed girl pressed her face to the bakery’s window and had to be dragged away by her harried father. 

“Eat up, Merlin,” said Arthur through a mouthful of red velvet cake. “We’ve not got all day.” 

Merlin poked the icing with the tip of his index finger. “It’s disgusting.”

“Do you have an eating disorder as well?” There wasn’t any judgement in Arthur’s voice. He was just asking. Merlin peeled the wrapper of the cupcake as he thought about the question.

“No,” he said finally. “But I get more depressed while I’m digesting, and, anyway, my stomach hurts all the time. It’s just easier not to put anything in it.”

“This is your last chance to have a cupcake,” said Arthur. “I don’t mean today. I mean forever.”

“I know. I still don’t want it.” 

“One bite,” said Arthur.

“Ugh. Fine, Mum.” Merlin broke off a crumb and put it in his mouth. It was almost too small to taste— just a quick pinprick of sugar, and then gone. Arthur was still looking at him expectantly with his stupid, kind, caring face. What a prat. It was weird, though. If the night before had gone as planned, Merlin would have never met Arthur Pendragon. He’d always be this vague story, a sibling of a friend, more anecdote than person.

And now here he was, in all his golden-haired, pink-cheeked glory. Merlin could see their ghosts in the window. Arthur, bright and compelling. Merlin, a dark smudge. Something that could be washed off with a good scrub.

“I haven’t decided how I’m going to do it,” said Merlin. Arthur’s fork paused on its way to his mouth. “Last night I tried to OD, but it didn’t work. I vomited everything out.”

“That sounds unpleasant.”

Merlin shuddered. “God, I hate vomit. But now I need a new way. Guns are out because I don’t have any way to get one, and don’t believe in them. And statistically, cutting never works. So I think I’ll hang myself.” 

Arthur’s fist clenched around his fork. Merlin waited. “Have you been thinking about this for a long time?”

“About killing myself?” said Merlin. “It’s been on and off since I was twelve. When I was seventeen I tried to crash my car into a tree, but I couldn’t do it to my mum. Sometimes all I want to do is hurt myself, and I don’t know any better way to do that than to kill myself.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” said Arthur, “even though I know you love doing that. But have you tried therapy?”

“Oh, God. Have I tried therapy? Arthur, I could _be_ a bloody therapist after all the fucking therapy I’ve done. And I’m sick of it. I’m sick of all the stupid terminology, all the _tools_ and _toolboxes_ and skills and DB-fucking-T. I mean,” and he laughed, helplessly, hopelessly. “There are only so many times you can sit in a circle and look round at all the other crazy people graduating group, and you’re still there, thinking _maybe this time. Maybe now I’ll get my cap and gown and diploma and go off into the world._ I’m done with it.” He ripped the bottom off his cupcake and put it over the icing, like a sandwich. He didn’t eat it.

“What about ECT?” said Arthur. “I know people it’s helped.”

“I think you’re forgetting the rules,” said Merlin. “No suggestions.”

“Merlin, do you know you’re the most infuriating man in the world?”

Merlin dimpled. “So I’ve heard on occasion.” 

“Good,” said Arthur. “And don’t forget it.” 

“Let’s going to my dealer next,” said Merlin.


	6. Canal Street

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW for drug use.

Arthur held the joint like it was a bomb. “Are you sure this is a good idea?” he said.

“Do it all the time,” said Merlin, digging around his pocket for the lighter. They were sitting on the rickety benches in the tiny courtyard behind Will’s chiropractor practice, trying to light up before he brought his 5 PM out back for some some nature-based trauma work.

“He was a C-section,” Will had explained as he deftly measured out the weed. “So we’re working through the trauma of an unnatural birth.”

“ _I_ was a C-section,” Arthur had said. 

Lighter retrieved, Merlin plucked the joint from Arthur’s grip and stuck the end of it in his mouth. He had to curl his hand around the flame to get it to catch. The first inhale cut through the scar tissue in his lungs, seared him to the quick. Then the second rolled over the first one, and the third over the second. 

“Thank _God_ ,” said Merlin, through the vapor unspooling from his mouth. “I needed that. Arthur, fuck, put your hand up. I can’t reach.”

Arthur looked up from the wet leaves plastered to the pavement. “Hm? Oh.” He took the joint elegantly, holding it between his index and middle fingers instead of awkwardly crimped between his thumb and index, like Merlin. His lips pursed beautifully around the joint when he inhaled.

“This is good,” said Arthur, holding it out appraisingly. “Your Will has some good stuff.”

“Yep.” Merlin took back the joint and lay on his back, with his feet on Arthur’s legs. “Been friends a few years now. I should put him in the note, yeah?” 

“Yes,” Arthur said. “I should think so. You two seem close.” 

“Mm-hm.” Merlin smacked his suddenly dry mouth. It felt like he’d take a bite out of the desert. “Eurgh. I need water.”

“You look funny,” said Arthur. 

“My mum says I’m beautiful,” Merlin said dryly.

Arthur nodded. “She’ll miss you.”

“No,” said Merlin. “She’s going to be so relieved, and I don’t blame her. It’s shit having a son like me. Always getting that call that he’s fucked up again. Put himself in hospital or lost his book deal or got so drunk he peed in a diner booth.”

“You peed in a diner booth?” said Arthur. 

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Merlin tossed the roach off the bench, where it joined a veritable mountain of them.

“But you really believe that, about your mum?” said Arthur. “You really think she’ll be _relieved_ that her son is gone?”

Merlin sighed and crossed his arms over his chest. “In my heart of hearts,” he said finally, “I know she’ll be sad. But I also know that in _her_ heart of hearts, she’ll be relieved. I’ll be a tragic story instead of a burden. I don’t think you realize exactly how much I fucking demand of people, Arthur. People are always happy to see me go.” 

“I won’t be,” said Arthur. Merlin laughed harshly.

“Really? Having the time of your life, are you? Because I’m really fucking not. I’m so tired, I’m so—” His voice broke off into a sob, and he had to fight to reign in his tears. “Jesus fuck. I never used to cry like this.” He accepted Arthur’s hand and sat up straight, planting his feet on the ground and staring blindly in the direction of Will’s back door.

“Like reading, crying is fundamental,” Arthur said, his hand still warm around Merlin’s. “My nanny used to say that. But that was usually just the precursor to, _but not all of it is good_. She usually said it when I was being stupid and crying over the broken Gamestation or something.”

“That’s better than over after nothing,” said Merlin. 

“Depression’s more than a fucking video game thing,” said Arthur. “There’s much more of a reason to cry.”

“Maybe,” said Merlin. “But maybe not.”

 

The tattoo parlor Will sent them to had framed photos of genital piercings and an entire wall of ceramic bongs. Merlin was particularly smitten with a sparkly orange one and purchased it on the spot. Now he was lying back in the piercing chair, cradling it in his arms like it was a strangely-shaped cat.

“Are you sure you want a piercing?” Arthur said for the millionth time.

“You think it’ll look too gay?” said Merlin, in a fake-panicked voice. “Come off it, Arthur. Piercings are cool these days. And it won’t matter after today, anyway.”

“What happens after today?” said the tattoo artist, a burly, gum-snapping, New York-accented woman named Jordyn.

“Nothing,” said Merlin. “And I think I want number four.” He tapped the chart of possible earrings, pointing out the small, stainless steel ball.

“Good choice, hun,” said Jordyn, uncapping a pen and putting a small mirror in his hands. “I’m gonna mark out where I’m gonna put it, and you can tell me if you like it, okay?” This close to her, Merlin could smell the sharp mint of her gum and a sugary sweetness that could have only been perfume. It kind of smelled like Gwen’s perfume, which made Merlin think guiltily of their last conversation. When he and Arthur left the shop, Merlin’s left ear stinging, he held up a hand. 

“I’m going to make a call, all right?”

“Okay,” Arthur said, his clear blue eyes resting calmly on Merlin’s face. “Whatever you need to do.” Merlin nodded awkwardly and walked a few feet away before he remembered his mobile’s fate. When he turned back to tell Arthur, Arthur was already holding out his own. He’d remembered that Merlin would need it.

“MERLIN!” Gwen shouted when she heard his voice. “I bloody fucking hate you, you ass! I’ve been calling you all day!”

“I’m sorry,” Merlin said honestly. “Really, Gwen. I acted badly. We’ll talk about it tomorrow, okay? I just need a little time first.” He felt a little guilty, making promises he couldn’t keep, but this seemed the easiest way to end things on good terms with Gwen. 

“Take today,” Gwen agreed after a little more yelling. “We’ll work on a plan tomorrow. And Merlin?”

“Yeah?” 

“Even though you’re the worst client I’ve ever had, I love you.”

“Love you too, Gwen,” said Merlin.

Above them, the sky was finally becoming more blue than gray, just in time for dusk.


	7. The Strand Book Store

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW for a conversation about a minor character death.

The Strand’s toilets were always soaking wet. Water dripped from the sleek black counters to Merlin’s trainers, and he uncomfortably took a step back from the sinks. Arthur, he knew, was waiting for him just outside the door, making sure that Merlin didn’t jump ship early. Merlin grimaced at the Merlin-in-the-mirror, who grimaced back. If he hadn’t, that would have been worrisome. 

“I assumed you’d drowned yourself,” said Arthur when Merlin finally exited the toilet.

“Believe me, it wouldn’t have been hard,” Merlin said, elbowing the door back and giving Arthur a view. Arthur winced.

“That’s disgusting.”

“I know.” Merlin let the door bang shut. 

“Morgana did an event here, I think,” said Arthur, looking around at the shelves.

“In the Rare Books Room, probably,” said Merlin, idly stroking a tattered copy of _Beowulf_. “I did a Q&A thing here a few years ago. The hot guy from _The Office_ moderated. BJ Novak.”

“Really?” said Arthur. “I quite like him. His book was very funny.”

“According to _The New Yorker_ , we have the same wry tone,” Merlin said. “It was a disaster, anyway. All the questions we got were for him, and he was trying so hard to include me…poor bloke.”

Arthur laughed. “That’s rough, Merlin.”

Merlin laughed a little, too. “I know. I got his number, though. So I guess you could say I have connections.”

“Most New York Times bestselling authors do,” Arthur said reasonably.

“I suppose,” Merlin said. 

“Should I get a knapsack?” Arthur said when they reached the merchandise section in front of the information station. 

“Aren’t you a little posh for that?” said Merlin, inspecting a tote bag splashed with the New York City skyline. 

Arthur ignored him. “This is nice,” he said, plucking at a dark gray bag. “Sturdy, too.”

“It’s your life,” said Merlin. 

“That’s very true,” said Arthur. “Do you want one?”

Merlin shrugged. “What for? It’s not like I’ll have time to use it.”

“I suppose not,” Arthur said quietly. They moved on from the merchandise.

“This was on my TBR,” Merlin said when they passed a copy of _Helter Skelter_.

“You like true crime?” said Arthur, paging through the book.

“Enough,” said Merlin. “I’m not, like, obsessed, but I do like thinking about the extremes of human actions.” 

“Spoken like a true writer,” said Arthur. He looked both ways before beckoning Merlin closer, as if he were about to tell a secret. “Morgana pretends she watches reality television for research, but she actually just loves the drama.”

“I’m not surprised,” said Merlin. “Her books are so dramatic. D’you remember how the main character in _Aithusa_ fell down the stairs, slipped into a coma, heard her uncle admit to being her biological father, made a miraculous recovery, and went on a murder spree ending with her uncle?”

“Obviously,” said Arthur. “Dad thought the whole thing struck a little too close to home, and the two of them didn’t talk for a year.”

“Morgana taught me how to be a better writer,” said Merlin. “You have the jettison what other people think. If you’re worried about hurting their feelings, you won’t create anything honest. My friend Freya was quite unhappy with _Confessions_. She said I stole her all these unflattering bits of her personality and gave them to Joan.”

“What happened?” said Arthur. “Are you still fighting?”

“No,” said Merlin. “She died.” There was a moment of silence, while Merlin wondered at the numbness in his chest. Usually he couldn’t mention Freya without sobbing. Maybe it was because his soul knew it would see hers soon. Even though Merlin didn’t believe in souls.

“I’m sorry to hear—”

“Don’t.”

“Did she forgive you before she died?”

“Yes,” Merlin said. “She realized that the book was a love letter to her, and then she wasn’t able to stay as mad at me.”

“Did you love her?” Arthur’s voice was quiet, and they were the only two people in the aisle, and Merlin was still numb.

“Yes. She was the best friend I ever had,” said Merlin. “I’ve never known anyone as well as I knew her. She was an addict.” 

“Oh,” said Arthur, and it was clear he could see where this story was going.

“She used to show up on my doorstep, high as fuck, her face flushed and her eyes bright, and she’d clean my whole kitchen and do the dishes twice. And then I’d hold her while she came down.” Merlin shrugged involuntarily, in a sudden spasm. “And then she died.”

“Fuck,” said Arthur. “That’s terrible, mate. I’m sorry.”

“Maybe Freya was right,” said Merlin. “Maybe I had no right to her personality. But I wanted to give her a story where she won.” 

“Doesn’t Joan get burned at the stake?”

“Freya always liked tragic endings,” said Merlin.

 

Downstairs, the shop was horribly crowded. “Hey, Merlin, look,” said Arthur, pointing to the staff picks table. Merlin reached out and rubbed the flame detailing on the cover of _Confessions_ , a nervous habit he’d picked up on tour.

“Oh, that book’s brilliant,” said a blonde girl in an NYU hoodie. When Arthur and Merlin looked at her, she gave a friendly smile. “I reread it last year when I should have been studying for finals, and I nearly failed my physics course. So worth it.”

“Really?” said Merlin. She nodded enthusiastically.

“Oh, totally. It’s about Joan of Arc and it’s so weird and creepy and she’s a time traveller and there’s a talking dog and it’s just sort of the best book I’ve ever read. I’m Elena,” she added as an afterthought.

“I think it’s trash,” Merlin said suddenly. “This book. I can’t even read it, it’s so fucking embarrassing. I hate it.” And it was true. A consuming anger had blossomed from the numb part of his heart, burning down anything good he’d ever felt for his book. Now it just felt pathetic. Why would he publicize his private thoughts like that? Freya’s? Who the fuck did he think he was?

“Are you screwing with me?” said Elena. “First of all, rude. Secondly, we can’t be talking about the same book. Embarrassing? What?”

Now Merlin felt uncomfortable. “Nothing. It doesn’t matter. I just don’t like it.”

“It changed my life,” she said. “I’m fucking serious. I read it when I was in eight grade, and Joan taught me how to dream big. She’s practically the reason I’m going to college. That book is my fucking Bible.” She thought about this for a moment. “Well, not really. I do tend to exaggerate. It’s a horrible flaw, and I’m really a terrible person. But this book means a lot to me, and I don’t appreciate your uninformed opinion.”

“Ambrosius here has absolutely no sense of literature whatsoever. It’s a horrible struggle, being his friend.”

When Elena moved on, Merlin turned on Arthur with a scowl.

“ _Ambrosius_? What sort of name is that?”

“I had to think fast!” said Arthur. “She was going to kill you, Wyllt.”

“You should have let her!” said Merlin. “One less thing for me to do.”

Arthur’s smile dropped from his face. “Right,” he said at last. “One less thing for you to do.”


	8. Riverside Park & Home, Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Very spoilery CW's in the endnotes.

Merlin picked at his stale cookie and watched the dark mass of the Hudson River roll by. Arthur was talking, saying something about the chill maybe, but Merlin wasn’t listening very well. “I’m going to write the note now,” he said. Arthur’s jaw snapped shut.

“Okay,” he said. 

“I need something to write with.”

“Okay.” Arthur reached into the pocket of his jacket and removed a small notebook and stubby pencil. “I use it for figures,” he explained.

Each moment that went by left Merlin more and more drained. He couldn’t muster the energy for a response, so he turned to the first fresh page instead. It was night, but there was enough ambient light from the light-posts that he could easily see the page. Irritatingly, it was grid paper instead of lines, but it wasn’t like Arthur used this book for writing, after all.

 _Dear Mum,_ he wrote. But he didn’t think he could go on. There was too much to say, and the paper was so small, and gridded, and insufficient for the last thing his mother would have of him. Suddenly, Merlin wanted his mother. He didn’t want to just talk to her on the phone. He wanted her to hug him, to rock him back and forth, to tell him that everything was going to be all right. When he was depressed as a teen, he would crawl into his mother’s bed and she would hold him until he stopped crying. 

She was going to be so fucking pissed at him. 

A tear-drop fell with a slight _tap_ to the page and spread out in a blotch. His fingers were freezing. Arthur put his hand around the back of Merlin’s neck, and Merlin leaned into the warmth and closed his eyes. Little tingles traveled up and down his spine, and he listened to them, and forgot that he was supposed to be writing his goodbye.

***

“So,” said Merlin, when they reached his stoop. “This is me.”

“This is you,” Arthur agreed, but he didn’t leave. He stood there and watched Merlin and Merlin watched him back.

“I’m going inside now,” said Merlin. 

“All right,” said Arthur. Neither of them moved.

Merlin looked at the ground. “Thank you for today. It was nice.”

“I’m glad,” Arthur said, and his voice was actually warm. 

“See you around,” Merlin said. “Or not.” He fumbled his keys from his pocket and turned to unlock the door. Arthur caught him with a hand to his arm.

“Merlin…”

“No,” Merlin said. “Let go.” When Arthur didn’t, Merlin jerked against his grip. Arthur held fast. “Mother _fuck_ er. You can’t hold me prisoner on my own porch.”

“You know I can’t let you go in there,” Arthur said, nodding to the dark maw of the vestibule. And maybe Merlin was an idiot, but he really hadn’t thought Arthur would hold him up now, at the most important moment. He wanted to scream, to cry. This wasn’t fair. It was his life.

“I hate you.”

“I know.”

Arthur’s grip was starting to hurt. Merlin tried not to cry. “If you’re going to rape me, could you hurry up?”

“What the fuck?” said Arthur, and, yes, that did it. He let go of Merlin’s arm. Merlin jammed his key in the lock and slammed the door behind him. Now they were on either side of the glass. Arthur’s face was unreadable in the low light. Merlin kissed the palm of his hand and pressed it to the door. Arthur pounded on the door, but Merlin turned and slipped up the stairs.

He had to hurry. Arthur’d shown his true colors, was probably dialing 911 as Merlin let himself into his flat. The light buzzed when he turned it on. There was his depressingly familiar living room, with his depressingly familiar books and half-eaten bowls of cereal and old newspaper sections fluttering around like birds.

How he hated his life. 

There was still some vodka left in the handle, and he tipped it down his throat, bypassing his tongue so he wouldn’t have to taste it. There was a creaking noise, and Merlin whirled around.

“How’d you get in?”

“A neighbor,” Arthur said. “And your door was unlocked.”

“You’re trespassing.”

“I can’t let you do this, Merlin. You knew that, right? You must have done.”

And Merlin felt like such an idiot again because, no, he hadn’t known. And now Arthur was staring at him like he didn’t recognize him, like they hadn’t just spent the whole day together, like Merlin was dangerous and unstable and _crazy_. And Arthur had promised. He’d _promised_. 

“You have to let me,” he said, but his voice was uncertain, because there was no denying that Arthur had the power here. And Merlin had to do something to change that, he had to, and he grabbed a knife off the block and pressed the tip into his own stomach. “Don’t come any closer. I’ll do, I swear I will.”

“Wait,” pleaded Arthur. “Merlin, please wait. Don’t do anything stupid.”

“You’re not in charge of me,” said Merlin. “I can do whatever I damn well please.” 

“Don’t!” Arthur said frantically. “Tomorrow’s a new a day. Don’t you want to see the sun rise?”

“Not particularly.”

“Let’s talk about this, at least,” said Arthur, his face flushed. “Please.”

“You can talk,” said Merlin. “I can’t promise I’ll listen.” He readjusted his grip on the knife, the sharp point grazing him through his shirt. Arthur swallowed at that, and turned his gaze to Merlin’s hands. 

“You’re making me nervous with that thing, Merlin.”

“Am I?” said Merlin. “I’m dreadfully sorry.” He couldn’t think of what to say next.

“Okay. Okay.” Arthur took a step forward, dragging his eyes from the knife to meet Merlin’s. “I had a good day, today. Didn’t you?”

“No,” Merlin said honestly. 

“Right. Okay. But you _could_ have a good day. I promise you.”

“And what would you know about it?” Merlin said caustically.

“What would I know about it?” Arthur said slowly. He moved his hands, and Merlin prepared to run, but Arthur was just unbuttoning his coat. After his coat came his button-down, and Merlin still didn’t understand. And then Arthur pulled off his undershirt, and Merlin gasped. 

The gunshot-wound was old but twisted, a horrible pucker of skin and subcutaneous material gnarled together into a bright-red indentation. Arthur let Merlin look his fill before pulling his undershirt back on. “I used to have so many last days,” Arthur said after a while. “I’d mark them out in my calendar and arrange my supplies and wait until I could kill myself. And then I’d push it off for the next week and the next week, and it was the only thing that kept me going. Until it didn’t work anymore, and I decided I was finished.”

“And you failed,” Merlin said hoarsely.

“And I failed,” said Arthur. “Look, Merlin, I know it’s hard. It’s bloody fucking exhausting. But I’m telling you, surviving was the best thing that every happened to me. Please, Merlin. Please listen.”

That was when Merlin heard the sirens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merlin makes a remark about Arthur sexually assaulting him in order to get Arthur to leave. He also threatens to kill himself with a knife. Arthur reveals that he tried to kill himself once, and shows Merlin the healed gunshot wound.


	9. Epilogue

Merlin and Arthur were fucked up, but at least they both knew this about each other, so no one was surprised. Some weeks Merlin didn’t get out of bed and sometimes Arthur could be a bit crazy about watching him take his meds, but at least the surprises had mostly run their course. Whenever people asked how they’d met, they’d say something vague about a bookstore and a city tour. They usually left out the involuntary hospitalisation and near-suicide.

“God, that was the most emo day of my life,” Merlin said once. “I can’t believe I did that with the knife. Can you believe I did that with the knife? That was _crazy_.”

“You _were_ suffering from a severe mental illness,” Arthur pointed out.

“At least I didn’t do the dramatic gunshot reveal. That was ridiculous. It should have been on telly.”

Arthur laughed and pulled his boyfriend closer to him in bed. “We’ve certainly come a long way,” he said into Merlin’s head. “Do you remember how you wouldn’t even talk to me for months? Not until that fundraiser?”

“I can’t believe Morgana actually introduced us to each other,” said Merlin. “I thought I would die of embarrassment.”

“I was just happy to see you looking so healthy,” said Arthur. Merlin rolled his eyes.

“Stop pretending to be nice when we both know you’re an ass.”

“I’m so nice,” Arthur protested and punctuated his statement by pressing a kiss to Merlin’s lips. 

“Morning breath,” Merlin said, but he kissed back anyway. Slow, pleasant, overwhelming happiness warmed him from the inside out. “I hate you.”

“I hate you too,” Arthur said, and kissed Merlin again. “Any plans for today?”

“Why don’t we play it by ear?” Merlin suggested.

After all, it was a lazy Sunday morning, and Merlin’s third book was coming along nicely, and Arthur didn’t have to be at work for another twenty-two hours, and outside the window, New York City was waking up.

The day was just beginning.


End file.
